Switchlock
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: I can't seem to stop writing crack fics. And so here's another. Teenlock. Johnlock. Fluff and mystery and a wee bit of magic.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**I apologise in advance for posting this fic now. I was going to wait until I was done. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. So here you go.**

**Oh, and this is rated T because I'm not sure if it will have smut. If I decide it will, I'll change the rating. See, if I had just waited to post until I was done, I would be sure what rating to give it. Oh well.**

**Enjoy. **

* * *

Any high school student that tells you they don't care what anyone else thinks of them is lying. If you're one of the people who says that, and you think I'm wrong, then you're lying to yourself.

And it's possible you're close. It's possible you don't care about _most_ of the things people think about you, but there's that one thing that bothers you. Or maybe you don't care what most people think, but there's that one person that you need to think positively of you.

John Watson is one such example of this type of person.

That people thought him strange didn't matter to him one bit. That not even his family seemed able to understand him was of little to no concern. It would seem to anyone looking from the outside that he really didn't give any credence to what people said or thought about him.

But then there was the one person that he didn't want to matter, but who always had.

It started when the boy transferred over to play football. John saw the team walking down the hallway with the boy whom he knew had only been at the school for a few weeks. John knew little about him at that point, other than that his name was Sherlock Holmes and he spent too much time with people like Anderson to be worth anyone's time. Well, he was more likely to be seen with Lestrade than Anderson, and admittedly Lestrade was less of an idiotic prat, but he was certainly one of the dullest creatures John had ever known, so that didn't make Sherlock seem worth his time any more than before.

But anyway, John was at his locker, and the team was waltzing on by. John, like he often did—and cursed himself for every time—turned when they walked by like most everyone else in the school, as if he were some stupid drone that followed the leader like every other person in this insipid establishment. Usually when he did, someone would have a less than kind comment ready to throw at him. But Anderson, for once, didn't notice John and couldn't make any snide remarks. Nobody really seemed to look John's way at all… except for Sherlock.

And a strange thing happened. John met eyes with Sherlock, whose gaze was the pale blue of ice and should have stabbed just like it… but Sherlock smiled warmly, nodding to John. Tall and pale and regal looking, Sherlock had the countenance of a vampire, and yet his smile contained all the sunshine in the world.

John didn't have time to decide if he was baffled, disgusted, or a little entranced before Sherlock was out of sight. But even as John—quite rudely, as he did most things—half stared and half glared at the taller boy, Sherlock kept smiling until he was gone.

It shouldn't have mattered to John. Not the slightest bit. It should have been suspicious, if anything. Never trust a footballer to be kind until they've thoroughly proved that fact. This Sherlock was probably just like the rest, but just barely clever enough to try to gain John's trust before striking. John could only reckon that a horrible prank was in store.

But John kept staring after the strange boy, the one who looked at him like he belonged when nobody else ever did.

And that was when the fascination began.

Every time Sherlock passed John in the halls, he'd smile. Not just when he was alone, but when he was with friends as well. And John every time would just stare, his eyes probably narrowed and his lip probably twitching, and Sherlock didn't care in the least. He'd keep on with that grin—a smirk like he and John shared some secret nobody else did. One time, he winked. John hadn't known what to think of _that_.

Things became stranger yet when Anderson made fun of John for the first time when Sherlock happened to be around. It was just Anderson, Lestrade, and Sherlock walking down the hallway.

"Oh look, if it isn't the boy genius," Anderson sneered. "Well, he's got no glasses to break, so why don't we get his nose instead?"

Usually, this was when Lestrade would casually mention that he should stop and Anderson would ignore him and Lestrade would let it happen, not knowing what else to do.

But before Lestrade could say anything… Sherlock did.

"Phil, quit it. What's John ever done to you?"

Anderson turned to Sherlock. "Is that a joke? You know the stuff he does. Always… always _guessing_ things about people."

John rolled his eyes and said in a bored voice, "It's not _guessing_, Anderson, it's _observing_. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn't take a genius to know that you're only such a bully because your father did it to you first."

Anderson immediately dove for John… and Sherlock caught him by the arms.

"Phil, come on, you're being stupid. If you don't want him to make you look a fool, then at least don't play right into his hands like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he spat.

"I mean he's _trying_ to bait you and you're going for it. Just take a breather, Phil. Greg, take him somewhere." Lestrade nodded and took Anderson by the arm, and Anderson let himself be dragged, even as he glared daggers at John the entire way.

Then Sherlock met eyes with John. John somehow expected some sort of lecture or something… but then Sherlock was smiling again, that same smile as always.

"This might sound stupid, but I've actually being wanting a chance to talk to you for a while." John looked up at him with blank disinterest, even though on the inside he was gaping. "I knew you did that. Could, you know, 'observe' things about people, as you call it. How do you do that?"

John considered not answering for a moment, but Sherlock _did_ save him another trip to the nurses' office, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to say something. "I just do. I've always been able to."

"It's just… it reminds me of my older brother, Mycroft. He's smart like that. I guess I didn't get the gene." Another grin. "Anyway, we've never been properly introduced. I'm Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

John hesitated for a long moment, but then took the hand in front of him. "John Watson."

"Good to meet you, John," said Sherlock pleasantly. John noted that it was strange how much Sherlock's whole visage didn't fit his disposition whatsoever. It wasn't uncommon, of course. Judging a person by their appearance didn't often work—their clothes and their actions, sure, but not just their hair and eye colour, not really. "Oh," Sherlock added, cutting off John's train of thought, "I'm sorry about Phil. He's honestly just jealous because you're the only one with higher marks than him in the school. He told me himself."

"_Anderson's_ got high marks? My god, how is _anyone_ stupider than that twit?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "You know, I'm seeing why you get punched so often."

"What, are you going to punch me too then?" asked John, the same snotty indifference in his voice as always so he could pretend it wouldn't truly hurt his feelings if Sherlock decided he disliked him.

"No," Sherlock replied easily.

John wished he could hide his genuine surprise a little better. "Why not?"

"I didn't say _I_ wanted to. I just see why other people do is all."

"And why don't you want to?"

Sherlock scanned John, in his version of trying to see all he could in another person in a few moments. What he could actually see from the inspection was probably laughable to John, but he supposed that the effort could be respected. A little.

"This would sound stupid to anyone," said Sherlock. "Especially to you. But I'll say it anyway. Ever since I first saw you, I felt this… bond, with you. Like you and I are supposed to be friends. Does that make sense?"

John blinked. "No, none at all," he replied seriously. "You don't believe rubbish like that, do you?"

John was surprised again by Sherlock smiling. "Yeah, figured as much. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to charm you the old fashioned way. I gotta go to class though. See you 'round?"

"… Sure."

And Sherlock was gone.

And that night, John had the first dream in his life that he remembered. And the star? You guessed it: Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock went back to his dorm room immediately after that disastrous encounter—because of course he'd been lying about having class. Which probably was silly, seeing as John was a genius and surely _knew_ he was lying.

He flopped down on his bed and groaned into the pillow. Damn it. He'd wanted to talk to that stupid boy for ages and he went and mucked it up. It was awkward and John was uncomfortable and Sherlock was so painfully obvious about his feelings it was ridiculous. There was no way John didn't know now.

Because, the truth was, Sherlock found John stupidly attractive. Simple as that. First time he saw the boy, there was this blond haired, blue eyed, gorgeous specimen of a human. Sure, he'd kind of stared blankly in response to Sherlock's smile, but maybe he'd been having an off day.

Then he learnt why he hadn't responded kindly to Sherlock's friendliness. It didn't take long at all to realise that John Watson was the most hated person in the school. It was all because he was clever—but possibly clever to a fault, because he didn't seem able to keep his mouth shut when he had a stroke of intuition even if it meant the difference between him getting a black eye or not. It reminded him a great deal of his brother, which was another curiosity that caused Sherlock to become fascinated with John. But anyway, he didn't have a single friend, and many people shoved him into lockers or taunted him as they walked by. So Sherlock, who had automatically made his way into the 'popular' group just by being a footballer, was probably the last person John would ever trust.

Well, Sherlock would just have to change that.

And he tried. He really did. He gave his absolute best smile every time he saw John, the kind that made girls melt into puddles even though Sherlock couldn't care less about their attentions. And John was always completely unmoved—usually looking disinterested, but sometimes even a little hostile.

Weeks passed, and then he was only _mostly_ unmoved—usually looking disinterested still, but every once in a while just looking a little confused, like Sherlock was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out—even when his brilliant mind could figure out every _other_ puzzle set in front of it. The first time that happened, Sherlock was so happy to get something besides a glare that he'd even winked. The completely baffled look on John's face in response was nearly enough for Sherlock to laugh.

And it was silly, because Sherlock didn't know a thing about John other than the fact that he was mystifyingly intelligent and looked like the sun reincarnate, but Sherlock had more than a minor thing for the other boy.

Then came Sherlock's moment to be John's knight in shining armour. And he stopped Phil, something nobody else ever bothered to do, and he thought that earned him the right to at least have a conversation with the other boy.

And then he'd been stupid over and over again, like bringing up his brother and saying he knew why people punched him and—worst of all—saying that whole thing about _bonds_. It was mostly rubbish. Well, Sherlock did feel the pull that he mentioned, and maybe even a sort of familiarity while they were talking that made no sense, considering they didn't know each other at all, but mostly the reason he wanted to talk to John so badly was because he wanted to jump his bones. And probably John knew that. And there was nothing more embarrassing than that.

Well, that was alright. He never should have pursued the other boy anyway. He was obviously completely uninterested—and anyway Sherlock wasn't sure his brand-new, fragile popularity could handle the blow of him being gay so early on. It wasn't like popularity was everything to him or anything, but it was certainly nice to come to a new school and not have to bother looking for friends—they all come to you.

So Sherlock spent the rest of the evening and the morning as he got ready telling himself that he would _not_ try to charm John Watson anymore. And he didn't try. All week, he was good, didn't smile when he walked by, didn't stare. The only thing he did was tell Anderson to stop if he started to bully him, and for some reason Anderson would listen to him, and then they would all walk away.

So imagine Sherlock's surprise when he went to get breakfast one morning and before he could get two steps into the cafeteria, he was yanked out of the hall and into a corner.

By none other than John Watson himself. His dark blue eyes were intense as he looked up at Sherlock, his gaze almost accusing.

"Um… hello," tried Sherlock awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. "Something… something wrong?"

"Yes, something is very wrong, and I don't understand what is going on. You have to help me."

The sense of urgency in John's voice made him become serious too. "What's happened?" Sherlock asked with concern.

"It's just…" John peeked around Sherlock, then said, "Not here. Come on."

Without waiting for Sherlock to agree or anything, John started stalking down the hall in that way he did like he owned the universe. And maybe he did, because Sherlock found himself following like a lost puppy, not knowing what else to do.

They were in the same hall as Sherlock's own dorm and then John was opening the door to the one at the very end.

It was a single room, which Sherlock hadn't known existed. And it was _thrashed_. There were the stacks of strange papers and shelves of… ugh, were those _moulding_? Well, it certainly smelled like it…

But Sherlock couldn't look around for long, because John turned around, slammed the door, and looked at Sherlock with those piercing eyes.

"Alright, so I've been having these dreams, and in these dreams—" began John.

"Wait, dreams, like—"

John made an irritated face. "As in when you sleep, obviously. Do keep up, Sherlock."

"I just don't get what your dreams could ever have to do with me is all," said Sherlock in response.

"Well if you'd let me finish, maybe you'd know," snapped John.

Sherlock raised a brow at the shorter boy. "No need to be so rude," he said coldly.

"Oh, sorry," said John, not sounding sorry at all, "_do_ sit down and I'll fetch you a tin of biscuits."

Sherlock scowled down at John. "I don't _have_ to help you with anything at all, I'll remind you. So quit being a cock."

"I'm quite sure you'll be interested once I tell you what it is," John replied.

Sherlock already was interested, _extremely_ interested. Anything that would cause John to give anyone the time of day, that could make him look this intense, was of acute intrigue to Sherlock. But John didn't need to know that, of course, so he shoved the curiosity down. "Well I won't give you enough time to tell me if you keep being a prat."

John looked quite ready to say something rude again, but then sighed. "Alright, sorry." He sort of sounded sincere this time. "You really can sit down, if you like."

Sherlock pretended to consider leaving before taking a seat on John's bed. He just hoped there were no mould cultures hidden in the sheets. John sat down in the chair in front of his desk—well, _sat_ isn't really the right word. He more perched on it, putting his hands together and resting his chin on them.

"This is going to sound quite strange, Sherlock," said John. "So I need you to give me the benefit of the doubt here." Sherlock gestured for John to speak, and John nodded. "So, as I was saying, I've been having dreams. The first one was a week ago, the first time we spoke to each other, and I've been having similar ones every night since." Sherlock again wanted to ask what the hell this had to do with him, but decided he'd better let John talk unless he wanted to get snapped at again. "In the dreams," continued John after a long moment of thought, "there are two men. They live together in London, and they solve crimes. Well, really, one of them is mostly solving the crimes, using deductive reasoning, and the other follows him around and writes a blog, more like…" he added, sounding almost bitter. "But anyway. Every night this week I've had a dream of these two men going about their daily lives… And…"

This time when he trailed off, it seemed to Sherlock that he really wasn't going to finish. It almost seemed to Sherlock, actually, that John was feeling… nervous. Timid. Which seemed utterly out of character.

Sherlock prompted, "Okay… so you're having these dreams. And they've got to do with me… somehow…" When John still didn't speak, Sherlock leaned forward a little, saying carefully, "It's alright, John. You can tell me."

John looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Well… the people in the dreams are you and I. Far older versions of us, but us nonetheless."

Sherlock blinked at John. Blinked some more. Pushed away his first thought: _John's dreaming about me giggle giggle._ Then he considered what John had said, and he finally replied, "So, what, you're off solving crimes and I'm writing a… blog?"

"No, Sherlock, that's the thing. It's the other way 'round."

Sherlock sat there silently again, completely confused. It took him a good ten seconds to answer. "Wait. You mean… _I'm_ the genius that solves crimes using deductive reasoning. And you're…"

"A fairly ordinary, kind man who writes a blog about our adventures together," completed John.

"Well… that's certainly a weird dream," Sherlock said. "But… I mean, they're only dreams."

"That's the thing. I'm not entirely sure that's true."

Sherlock really didn't know what to say to that. He didn't understand what John was trying to imply. That the dreams were, what, real? Visions of the future? None of that made sense, and it didn't seem like something a rational, clever boy like John would think. So he didn't say anything, waiting for John to elaborate.

John obviously saw the dubious look on Sherlock's face, because he said, "Okay, Sherlock, think about it. I don't know if it's the same for you, but at least for me, I don't really remember anything that happened before the day you arrived. There's a vague impression of a life I lived, but no real memories. What about you?"

"Er… well…"

"Who was your best friend at your last school?" asked John. "What did you do for your birthday this year?"

Sherlock sat there and thought about it for a moment. And a weird thing happened. It occurred to him that he didn't have the answer to either of those questions. In fact, he couldn't even really remember what his last school even _was_. It was in… London? Maybe…

Okay, something was strange, Sherlock had to admit, but he still saw no connection between the dreams John was having and the lack of memory they both shared.

"Alright," said John. "I'll just have to tell you about the dreams."


	3. Chapter 3

The first night, the dream was vague enough that John really couldn't make any conclusions out of it. He and Sherlock were walking down the streets of London together. Sherlock's face was… cold, in a way that John had never seen before. It matched his appearance better than the smiling did, certainly, but it was strange to see. And then there was himself, walking beside Sherlock. He was laughing at some joke. It was stranger than the look on Sherlock's face. The only thing worse than that was the horrible jumper John was wearing. He much preferred Sherlock's attire, dark and regal.

But things got even _worse_ quickly. Because Sherlock started to speak, in the quick manner that John often did, about how the woman that they just passed in the street was cheating on her husband, and he, himself, had said in a tired way, "And how do you know that?"

The John that was watching the dream knew in an instant why dream-Sherlock had known that. But dream-John had listened to Sherlock's explanation, and then chuckled under his breath. "You're a bloody show off, you know that?"

And he'd woken up.

It had only been peculiar that first night. John didn't spend much time thinking about it, even though it was the first dream his brain had ever bothered to catalogue.

But each night, he'd have similar dreams. He realised that he and Sherlock solved crimes in London, but that they seemed to have… switched minds. Which sounded idiotic even in John's own head, but the evidence in the dreams came to that obvious conclusion.

It was the fourth night of having the dreams that he tried to remember his past—randomly, really—and came up with little. He had parents, and a sister who wasn't nearly as smart as he was. He was raised… somewhere…

Mostly, the dreams bothered him because the thought of being average was abhorrent to him. Why was Sherlock suddenly the clever one? Was John's mind showing him some hidden self-doubt somewhere deep inside? Though, he did seem to have the dreams from Sherlock's point of view—the only time he saw one of them without the other was when he was watching dream-Sherlock do something, never dream-John—which made it a little less unnerving.

But really, John tried not to think about them, mostly.

Until the fifth night, when the nature of the dreams changed slightly. Enough for John to pay attention.

* * *

John was irritated with Sherlock the moment he got home from the surgery, that much was obvious. The restlessness of his leg, the way he kept picking up an activity and then abandoning it less than thirty seconds later.

Sherlock was able to watch it for ten minutes before he finally said, "Alright, out with it. I've done something."

John just rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"Come on, John, this isn't still about yesterday, is it?"

John finally met Sherlock's eyes. "Oh, look, the genius figured it out," he snapped.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you or anything," explained Sherlock, barely hiding his impatience. "I just don't understand your need for public displays of affection."

John rolled his eyes again. "Sherlock. We've been together for five _years_. Some people are married by that point. But you can't even hold my hand? It feels like you're embarrassed of me or something."

"That's stupid," said Sherlock immediately. "I have you around all the time. Obviously I'm not embarrassed of you."

"I don't mean embarrassed to have me around, Sherlock. I mean embarrassed to be dating me."

"But you know that isn't true."

"Do I?"

"_John_…" Sherlock groaned. "Please, does this have to be a huge deal? We're so close to finding out how—"

"Sherlock," John cut in. "Please tell me you're _not_ bringing up the case when I'm trying to talk to you about something important."

"The case _is_ important! More important than your irrational feelings!"

Sherlock knew the moment he said it that it was a mistake. Sure, sometimes John's feelings were a mystery to him, but that particular sentence would have upset anyone. Saying it to his boyfriend who was already cross with him? Yeah, not the smartest thing Sherlock had ever done.

Sherlock knew he'd gotten John dangerously angry because suddenly he didn't _look_ so angry. He looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows just barely up, his lips just a little pursed. He sucked his teeth with his tongue, nodded. "Yeah, alright," he said, standing up.

Oh bad. Very bad. Spend-a-week-with-Sarah bad. Maybe a month bad.

The thought made Sherlock feel sick.

"John, I didn't mean that!" said Sherlock immediately.

"Yeah, you did," said John, grabbing for his coat.

"Please, really, don't go."

"I really can't handle you right now Sherlock, I just can't. All I want is for you to show, just once, that you care for me, and you can't."

Sherlock reached for John and caught his arm, spinning him around and pressing him to the wall. "John," he whispered, smiling just barely, "You know I care for you."

John kept glaring up at Sherlock. After a moment, he shook him off. "Fine, I'll stay, but I'm still cross with you."

And he stomped up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to stare up after him, a frown on his face.

* * *

Dream-Sherlock really did have problems with displaying public affection, it seemed, because it didn't occur to John for even a moment that the two of them were romantically involved in the dreams, not until it was mentioned in this dream. John decided he wouldn't mention that part to Sherlock. It didn't matter, really.

What did matter, however, was what happened in the seventh dream.

* * *

John was still angry with him. Sherlock was quite certain John had never been angry with him for so long.

At first, it made Sherlock want to grovel at his feet, beg his forgiveness. But after a few days, it just made him angry himself. Why did John have to be so sensitive? And during a case! This would've been done days ago if John weren't distracting Sherlock with his temper tantrum.

But as it were, even when the two were furious with each other, they seemed incapable of being apart, so they were still going everywhere together—they just weren't speaking other than when they had to, and even then both their voices teemed with impatience.

Such as: "Sherlock, I don't understand why we're here."

"Because if the woman in this flat owns more than three cats, then she's the murderer."

"You mean Marie Beaulieu? What motive did she have to murder five people?"

"John, I already explained this."

"I know, but it made no sense. She was the kindest woman I've ever met."

"That has nothing to do with whether she's a murderer, John, you should know that by now."

"You said yourself that you didn't understand how she would know two of them."

"But if she owns three or more cats, then there's a possible link between all of them. Which is why we're checking."

"What, you couldn't tell just by looking, oh mighty genius?"

Sherlock glared. "If you had eyes, you'd know she was completely obsessed with hygiene. Keeps a lint roller on her constantly. There wasn't a strand of her _own_ hair on her clothes, let alone that of a cat. She smelled only of soap, candles, and disinfectant. Obvious," he added in frustration.

"Fine," John muttered. "Let's just do it."

So Sherlock picked the lock and the two of them let themselves into the flat.

And John certainly didn't see what he expected to see. Marie had seemed really rather ordinary in every way the first time they met her. She was the sister of one of the victims, and she had been normal enough that Sherlock's boredom at her personality had shown on his face as she spoke.

But her flat wasn't boring in the least.

Apparently, Marie Beaulieu had an extreme obsession with the occult. Or with psychics. Or… something like that. John wasn't even quite sure. But the flat was draped in strange fabrics and she had tarot cards and crystal balls and a pile of animal bones in the corner and countless other things that no normal, ordinary, boring woman should have in her house.

After what was at least a minute of utter silence, John finally said, apparently too startled to sound annoyed, which was a relief to Sherlock. "Erm… she doesn't seem to have any cats."

Sherlock was still quiet for a few more long seconds before he said, "I knew she was hiding something, hiding it well enough that I couldn't even tell what it was. That was why I was so sure she was guilty. But it seems her secret has nothing to do with our case."

"Unless they were all killed by black magic," John said weakly.

"Oh, come John, you're not moronic to believe she can actually _do_ _magic_, are you? She's just a stupid woman who has deluded herself into believing fairy tales. Don't do the same."

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. The annoyance was back again. "Alright, so she's off the list. Can we leave?"

Sherlock nodded, and they both turned…

And there was Marie Beaulieu herself, standing in her doorway in her old lady jumper—not so different from John's, really—and thick glasses. She still smelled like nothing but cleanliness, but the candle scent made even more sense now that Sherlock had seen the flat. There were dozens of candles, all of which the batty woman had kept lit in her absence—and when you had this much drapery in your home that was unforgivably unwise.

"I had a feeling someone was in my home," she said, "so I came back for my lunch break."

"A feeling?" asked Sherlock as patronizingly as he could manage.

"Sherlock, quit it. I'm sorry, Marie, we just… well, there's no good explanation for—"

"It's no problem, really," she said with a smile. "You know my secret now. It doesn't matter much. It's my family who I never wanted to know." Then her smile faltered as she looked closely between Sherlock and John. "The two of you… are at odds."

"It doesn't take a psychic to know that," said Sherlock with an eye roll.

"No, you're right," said Marie. "It's rather obvious. You both are under-appreciating the other. You don't realise what it is like to be in the other's shoes."

Now both Sherlock and John gave her the same dubious, slightly put-out face.

"I _think_ it's none of your business if we're in a row," John said in a would-be pleasant manner.

"Maybe not," she said, "but I never _was_ good at minding my own business. So I think I'll do the two of you a favor."

At the same time, they said:

John: "A what?"

Sherlock: "What kind of favor?"

"This change won't last forever," continued Marie as if uninterrupted. "Only until the two of you can see eye to eye. And yes, making you high school students is a bit cruel, but if you can face your fears and demons as teenagers, your adult problems will seem simple. Plus, you _did_ break into my house, so I think we're even."

Sherlock got one last look at John's face before everything went black.

* * *

**So this is all I have so far. If you want more, review so I know people are interested.**


	4. Chapter 4

**This got more attention than my other Sherlock story I posted yesterday, so I wrote another chapter for it. Enjoy!**

* * *

John spent a long time explaining the dreams to Sherlock, each in extreme detail. Sherlock was surprised he could even remember so much. Then again, he _was_ a genius.

Unless he wasn't. Sherlock was intrigued with the idea that maybe he was the real genius of the pair. Not that it would be fantastic to have John's mind, because even with the intellect, there was the personality. Which needed work, if Sherlock said so himself.

"So… you're telling me that some crazy witch put a spell on us to make us high school students and trade our brains so I'm the dumb one and you're the smart one when really it's the other way 'round?"

"That's an adequate summary, yes," John agreed.

"And the only way for us to fix it is… to learn to understand each other?"

"Something like that," said John, rolling his eyes.

"Well… how do we do that?" enquired Sherlock.

"We hardly know each other," explained John. "You can't understand someone you don't know."

After a moment, Sherlock gave John a mischievous smile. "So did you make all this up just cuz you wanted to be my friend?"

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock."

"I know, I know. I was only kidding."

There was a moment of silence as John looked at the ground pensively. Then he said, "It seems silly even to me, this whole thing. It just seems to me the more I think about it that it makes a strange sort of sense. Such as your brother Mycroft being intelligent like me. It would seem logical for it to be genetic. Though I feel being raised with someone like myself would have been rather miserable," he added. "I can't imagine he and I would get along if we were siblings."

"Don't worry, I don't get on with him either," said Sherlock with an eye roll. "He thinks he knows _everything_ all the time." He paused. "Then again, you seem the same, so maybe I get where the witch lady's coming from with the whole see-eye-to-eye business." Another thoughtful silence. "We seem to be really good friends. If that really is our real lives."

"Yes, it seems so," replied John vaguely.

And Sherlock was no genius (at least, not in this world, if John's theory was true), but he always had a pretty good intuition.

And he couldn't help but notice that during his retelling of his dreams, John would sometimes stumble over his thoughts. He didn't seem the type to stumble, even if it was only for a moment. It gave Sherlock the feeling that John was hiding something, had been censoring himself to skip over some information. But what could be so bad that he felt the need to hide it after telling the truth about the rest? Sherlock shuddered to think.

John was perched in that computer chair of his, looking into the corner of the room like there was an answer to a question there, if only the boy searched hard enough.

"Here's how I see it," started Sherlock, and John's eyes moved slowly to him after a moment, like he was slightly irritated to have his train of thought interrupted. But that didn't deter Sherlock from continuing, "Either your dreams are true or they aren't. If they are, we have to spend time together in order to understand one another. And if they aren't..." Sherlock looked the other boy up and down, hoping the hungry look in his eye wasn't completely obvious, "It still wouldn't hurt to get to know each other. So there's really one option ahead of us."

John nodded. "That was my own supposition as well."

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment, then shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Are you purposefully pretentious, or is it just an accidental talent?"

"It's hardly my fault if other people can't seem to speak with above a primary school level of vocabulary."

Sherlock scanned John again—his profile now, since he had taken to staring at the wall again. His golden hair hanging over his forehead, his dark blue eyes so keen that Sherlock wondered if John wasn't analysing him in his peripherals.

"Has anyone ever been kind to you, John?"

He asked it as gently as he could, and still John almost literally jumped, turning to him with a face somewhere between surprise and anger.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

"That would be a no," Sherlock muttered, and before John could say whatever cruel thing had been considering, Sherlock continued, "Come on."

"Come on where?" he asked suspiciously.

Sherlock put up an eyebrow, trying not to smirk in amusement at the suspicion and failing. "To breakfast?"

"I don't need any breakfast."

"Yes you do."

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

Sherlock didn't let him finish, since he knew he was going to say something like 'take care of myself'. He interrupted by saying, "Apparently you can't. Come on."

"Sherlock—" John began to complain.

But Sherlock just stood up and went out the door, and after a moment, John sighed heavily and followed him out.

* * *

Sherlock was surprised by how quickly they fell into a routine of spending time together. It didn't feel like something they were doing out of a sense of obligation. It just because a part of life. Wake up, go to breakfast and have John watch him eat, go to class, go to lunch and have John watch him eat, go to more classes, go to football training, go to either John or Sherlock's room and let John psychoanalyse him based on his shoes or the smudge by his ear, go to dinner and try and fail to convince John to eat, spend more time together after that.

Phil Anderson wasted no time bringing it up, of course. He noticed within twenty-four hours.

"What are you doing hanging out with _Watson_?" he asked venomously after training as they walked out of the locker room.

Sherlock looked at him steadily, then said, "I might be wrong, but I _think_ that's none of your business."

That same conversation happened almost the same way every day for two weeks. Usually it ended there, but one day, Sally, Phil's girlfriend, was there, and she took this moment to put her own two-cents in. "You know what he does with his time, don't you? He sneaks into crime scenes and looks at the dead bodies. What a _freak_."

"He doesn't actually do that," said Greg. "That's just a rumour someone made up. Probably Phil," he added.

"Does too!" Sally retorted. "He was seen doing it. And I'm the one who told Phil about it, so obviously he didn't make it up."

"Seen by who?"

"Dunno, I'm not a copper, am I?" she said defensively. "But you've seen him! Would you be surprised?"

"Okay, okay," Sherlock said when he could get a word in, "I don't really care if it's true or not true. What he does on his free time isn't my business."

"It will be when he gets bored and wants a new dead body to play with," Sally said ominously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was ashamed to say that what Sally said got to him, just a little. Not because he thought John was going to kill him or anyone else, that part was daft, but he did wonder if John really did sneak into crime scenes.

See, sometimes Sherlock would just lie on his bed while John paced, obviously having something on his mind but being unwilling to tell what it was. And sometimes, he would mutter, and when he did… Well, Sherlock had heard him say some strange thing under his breath, he'd leave it at that.

Not to mention that Sherlock sometimes couldn't find John anywhere, and had wondered on more than one occasion if John occasionally sneaks off campus. That would certainly fit Sally's theory.

So Sherlock went to John's room after getting a shower in…

The moment Sherlock walked in, John said, without looking at him, "Something's on your mind. I despise beating around the bush, so just spit it out."

Sherlock blinked for a moment, but then said, "Fine. I was wondering if you sneak off campus to look at crime scenes."

John still didn't look up. "That's correct."

This time Sherlock was silent for a good five seconds. "Why?" he asked.

John finally decided the conversation was worth a bit more of his attention. Maybe by Sherlock's tone of voice, maybe that he was standing by the door like he might flee at any moment. "It's not because I put them there, if that's what you're wondering."

The response was more than disconcerting, but most things John said were, so it didn't faze Sherlock much. "I never said you did."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just wondering why you would do that," Sherlock replied calmly.

John looked up at him, something like amusement in his eyes. "Remember the dreams? How I told you that you, Sherlock the deductive genius, solve crimes with your brilliance?"

Sherlock's mouth popped open into a little 'o'. He probably should've made that connection. "You solve crimes?"

"Not officially, because I'm not _allowed_. But yes, I do. See, I'm rather skilled at the art of disguise, so I've made up an alias of a private detective. Athelney Jones is a moron and hasn't realised how young I am yet, not with the fake mustache."

"Fake mustache?" asked Sherlock with a chuckle.

"Shut up," John snapped, before saying, "But yes, I help the sadly inept Detective Inspector solve the crimes, without anyone else even noticing I'm there, like I'm a ghost or something. DI Jones takes all the credit."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I don't do it for the credit, Sherlock."

"then what do you do it for?"

John looked at Sherlock more closely, and then he got a look on his face that was even more disconcerting than any other face Sherlock had seen the blond boy make: a true smile, with something a little sinister beneath it.

"Why ask when you could see for yourself? That's how I feel." He stood up. "Shouldn't take long—"

"Long? To _what_?"

"To disguise you. Come to the scene with me. Then you'll see why I do it."

Sherlock should've said a lot of things. 'You're mad,' would have sufficed. 'I'm turning you in!' might have done as well. But instead…

"Yeah, okay."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock got one important piece of information out of John going mad and getting them both into outrageous disguises so that they could sneak into a crime scene.

John looked horrible with a mustache. It was a fake one, yes, but it was dreadful. He was sixteen years old and he looked like he was sixty.

"Don't ever grow facial hair," Sherlock told John. Out of courtesy, you know. "You look ancient.'

"That's the _point_, Sherlock. Do try not to bore me with idiocy." Sherlock was about ready to tell him to quit being a git, but then this amused light entered his eyes, and he said, "Mustaches don't look very nice on you either, I'll have you know."

Oh yes. Sherlock had forgotten. John wasn't the only one in a fake mustache and stupid coat and whatever else.

So Sherlock walked over to a mirror.

And gaped.

Sherlock had trouble considering that he was really looking at himself at all. He… well, he knew his own face, so it's not like he was completely unable to see himself in the reflection, but… the disguise was good. Very good.

"This is impressive," Sherlock finally said.

"Well it's—" John started, as if he had been ready to argue or something, but then had heard what Sherlock actually said. "Oh. Yes. Glad you think so," he said, sounding a little startled.

"What, nobody's ever told you that before?"

John's face went haughty again. "The point is that nobody recognises me. How would someone tell me it's a good disguise if nobody knows it's a disguise? You're being dense again, Sherlock."

"Well, that makes two of us."

"And how is that?" asked John dryly.

"Because you're dense with _people_. If you want me to stay around long enough to fix us, then you better get your attitude in line."

"_Attitude_," John scoffed. "Honestly, Sherlock, you sound like a mother."

"Well maybe you need some motherly scolding every once in a while so you quit being a brat."

The two glared at each other.

John was the first to sigh. "This is a waste of time. Do you want to see a crime scene or not?"

Maybe Sherlock should have taken this time to say that this was stupid. Since he hadn't taken the dozens of other chances to do so. But that's not what he did.

"Yeah, let's go."

* * *

Sherlock didn't know what he was doing. This was _insane_. They'd get caught. Impersonating other people was illegal, wasn't it? Especially if you do it to a cop's face.

John seemed to read the panic in his eyes as they climbed the fence behind the school—because if this weren't stupid enough on its own, they had to sneak out and risk getting caught by the school too—so when they both landed on the other side, John said, "I've done this hundreds of times." He paused. "Well, unless my vague memories are all lies like I suppose, but even so, I've done it every day for weeks and never gotten caught. You needn't worry so much."

Sherlock didn't feel very much better after that, but he didn't say anything.

When they got to the crime scene, Mr Jones was waiting.

"Oi, you've got someone with you?" he asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"Yes. Colleague."

Jones lifted a brow, as if to ask, '_You_ have a colleague?'

"I had a feeling you'd come today," Jones said. "Though I'm not sure we'll be needing you. This one's a clear suicide."

"I'd still like to take a look," John said.

"I suppose I'll be getting more of your theories then," Jones quipped. "Don't know why you bother with theories when we need answers."

Sherlock blinked. Weren't theories what _led_ to answers? Maybe John was right, saying this guy was a bloody idiot.

So they followed the fellow into the house, and in the front room there lay a woman with slits up both wrists, bled out. Sherlock expected himself to be… well, more alarmed. Unnerved. Maybe sick? But he wasn't. He looked at the body with his head tilted to one side. John came forward, spinning slowly for a moment, eyes moving furiously as if he could see everything in the room in a glance. He went into the other two rooms as well before coming to lean down in front of the body. So Sherlock followed him, also leaning down to get a better look. But John sat for barely ten seconds before he said, "Be right back."

He went outside, but only for thirty seconds. Then he knelt in front of the body again, took the purse off of her and rummaged through it a bit, but Sherlock didn't pay any mind to what he was doing.

Which means Sherlock didn't notice when John looked over to him.

"You look pensive," John said with a smirk. "Do you have something to say?"

He meant to say no. But instead, what came out of his mouth was, "Nicked both the ulnar and radial artery. It'd take a bit of medical experience to manage that."

He blinked at the words that he'd just spoken. Erm. Well, it sounded legit. And John suddenly looked just a little impressed. So he didn't say anything and let John reply, "Well she was a surgical technician. But she wasn't the one with the expertise."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked.

"I saw."

"Saw?"

John ignored Sherlock. "This isn't suicide, Jones. This was murder."

Jones looked exasperated. "More of these theories," he grumbled. "It _looks_ like a suicide, and so it must be, Mr Smith. Things aren't often more than they seem. What you see at a first glance is probably the truth."

Okay, yeah, John was definitely right about this man. A complete moron. No wonder he needed the help of a teenager to get anything done.

"That's possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard from your mouth," John decided aloud. Sherlock snorted before covering his mouth to stifle the laugh, rubbing his nose and clearing his throat to look casual. John spared Sherlock a single amused glance before looking back to Jones. Though Jones looked insulted, he had no time to speak before John was saying, "I'm a bit disappointed, really—the killer barely even _tried_ to make it look like suicide. Look at the lacerations. They were cut from this angle, here. If this woman had done it to herself, she would have cut like this, here," John said, displaying the angle at which someone had to cut themselves. "But the killer was sitting in front of them. Nobody could cut themselves at this angle unless they can detach their own arms. Obvious. Not to mention the woman was sleeping with her best friend's husband."

Jones spluttered for a moment, his face going from pink to red either with anger or from trying to think so much when his brain was clearly not up to the challenge. "Where the hell did you get that from?"

"There's clear signs of the end of an important friendship to this woman. Clean squares of dust where pictures used to be and now aren't. The fact that the skip outside holds trinkets that nobody would throw out unless it was for sentimental reasons, because the items themselves are neither broken nor worn out. Then there's the text right here in her phone from a 'Georgiana' that says, 'I know what you did'. This text was a week ago. Since then, they met, of course. They can't help it, since they both work at the same hospital. This woman and her friend Georgiana got into an irreparable row and she started throwing her things away. It was three days ago when she stopped showing up to work, realising that her friend might try something on her. The door wasn't picked or broken, so this person had a key. Another indication that it was a friend. She was hiding herself away in her room with the door blocked with a chair. That much is obvious from the state of her room. So what brought her from her safe room? Easy. Georgiana brought with her the man in question, and this victim thought she was safe. He tricked her into the front room and held her in place, and Georgiana killed her. If you go to St Barts, you'll find someone who works there named Georgiana, I'm sure of it. Arrest the husband too." He stood up and brushed off his knees. "Well, that was exciting," he said dryly. "Come on," he added to Sherlock, who followed after him mutely.

"John," Sherlock said when he was sure none of the cops were in earshot anymore, "You really guessed all of that?"

"Guessed, no. Observed."

"So… you saw it. You just looked around and saw _all_ of that based on _nothing_."

"Based on the evidence, Sherlock," John said, not sounding as impatient as usual. He was clearly in his element, too pleased to be patronising. "It's always there. You just need the keenness of eye and mind to see it."

There was a long silence. "That was bloody brilliant," he finally said.

John blinked and looked over to him. "You think so?"

"Of course. That… wow."

John didn't seem sure how to respond to that.

"May I come to the next crime scene?" Sherlock asked timidly.

John looked more surprised than ever.

"What, it was your point in bringing me here to get me interested, wasn't it?"

"Well I wasn't sure whether it would work."

"I thought you knew everything."

John ignored that. "Speaking of knowing things, that tidbit about the arteries was good, if not unexpected. How'd you know that?"

Sherlock wanted to be indignant that John had no faith in his intelligence, except… "I honestly don't know," he replied. "I just said it and didn't really realise what I was saying."

John nodded. "I suspected so. See, in my dreams, you're a doctor."

"A _doctor_?" Sherlock blurted out.

"Yes. I think maybe your knowledge from the real world is seeping into this one. I'm getting dreams and you're getting medical knowledge."

Well. If that wasn't proof that John really might be right, Sherlock didn't know what was. Because there was no reason at all for Sherlock to know that fact, but he did. This was the only explanation that even fit.

"I guess it is," Sherlock agreed.

"So you believe me now?" asked John.

"I never said I didn't."

John looked at him blandly.

"Right, I didn't have to," Sherlock said. "Well yes, I believe you now. No matter how mad it sounds." He paused. "Though I'm surprised you believe it, honestly. You don't seem like the type to give credence to dreams, no matter how convincing they are."

"The realm of what I believe and what I do not does not coincide with other people. I don't base such things on widely accepted knowledge, only the facts. The facts say there's magic involved. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Sherlock looked down at John with a strange feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with his charming good looks. It was almost as if Sherlock were becoming fond of John as a person, even considering all the bad stuff. Which was impossible—no, not impossible. Improbable. And once you've ruled out the impossible...

Sherlock didn't reveal any more of his amazement. He rolled his eyes to hide his wonder. "Yes, alright. Now let's get back before dinner starts without us."


End file.
